Scars Of The Heart
by SelDear
Summary: It's been two years since Harry defeated Voldemort, but the cost of victory was high. Now, Harry and Ron are Aurors, hunting down Voldemort’s remaining Death Eaters with a terrifying fervour. As they strike back at those who took so much from them, they w
1. The One Night Of The Year

**The One Night Of The Year**

Harry found Ron where he expected.

"Have a firewhiskey," the other man said, indicating the bottle and the glass sitting on the coffee table. No greeting, no questions, not tonight.

Tonight was...special.

Without a word or a noise, without even turning on the lights in the flat, Harry perched himself on the edge of the armchair opposite his friend, and poured himself a glass of firewhiskey. The crystal rim of the tumbler chimed clearly against the lip of the bottle in the quiet, breaking the irregular background hum of traffic running in the street outside the window. Liquid amber gurgled as it half-filled the tumbler, and Harry set the bottle back down and took up his glass.

Ron, he suspected, had already gotten a head start on the drinking.

No surprises there.

He sipped at the fiery liquid, feeling it burn his throat as it went down. A small pain compared to the fierce contraction of his heart as he looked up at the picture that sat squarely over the mantelpiece.

Three people looked out of the photo, their young, vivid faces alight with playful laughter. Two young wizards had their arms around an equally young witch, sandwiching her in an exuberant post-match hug. The girl between them laughed and pushed at first one then the other, trying to escape them. Sometimes she did, just for a little while, before the other two would drag her, squealing, back into the picture.

Behind them, the crowds milled, smiling tolerantly at the trio's antics.

As Harry watched, the young woman looped one arm up and over the shoulders of the two boys, and sighed, her delicate features settling into an expression of indulgent affection as she leaned her head against the shoulder of the taller one.

The seventeen year-old Ron Weasley looked startled, then gratified. Beside him, the seventeen year-old Harry glanced at them both, amused by both gesture and response.

And seventeen year-old Hermione Granger grinned out of the portrait, unaware of the glance her two closest friends passed over her head. Unaware that this was the last picture anyone would have of her, the last memory that would define her in the hearts of the two young men who'd been there with her since their first year at Hogwarts.

A week later, she was missing, presumed dead. There were no leads, no proof, no traces of how she'd been taken, and nothing more than the suspicion of who or why they'd taken her. A month after that, the two young wizards in the photograph took on the Dark Lord with nothing more than determination, their wands, and a spell _she'd_ crafted for that very purpose.

Voldemort was destroyed and the wizarding world heaved a sigh of relief and got on with their lives.

The two young men were hailed as heroes.

The young woman was mostly forgotten.

Mostly.

They'd learned to live as if she'd never existed. It was easier, less painful than acknowledging that something in them still expected her to turn up one day at the door with a pile of books in her backpack and an answer to the latest problem they were facing.

But they never forgot.

And especially not on the 19th of September.

Their friends and family knew not to try to contact them tonight, short of anything but Voldemort's resurrection. Last year, Ron had snapped at his father, "Dad, I don't bloody care if the Death Eaters are tap-dancing on the roof of the ministry to Celestina Warbeck – this night is the one night of the year that _I do not want to be disturbed!_" Mr Weasley had opened his mouth as if to remonstrate with his son, and then bit back whatever he'd been going to say.

One night of the year was a pittance compared to what should have been hers. She should have had a long and celebrated life as one of the most brilliant young witches of the early twenty-first century. Instead, she'd vanished without a trace.

Harry felt the injustice of it like a weight against his chest, pushing him down, down, down, like a millstone. He'd tried to drive her and Ron away in their sixth year, tried to protect them from what he knew would happen to one or the other or both of them. If he'd only been able to thrust them away from him, away from the danger in which his life had always been lived, then maybe she wouldn't be gone today...

_Don't you think you've got a bit of a...saving people thing?_

The words hadn't been funny then, and they weren't funny now. He hadn't been able to save Sirius; instead, he'd gotten Sirius killed. He hadn't been able to save Hermione either, although it wasn't what he'd _done_ that had made her a target, it was what he _hadn't_ been able to do; turn his back on her and Ron to the point where they were safe from Voldemort.

Yeah, Harry had a 'saving people thing'.

But, Merlin, he wished Hermione were around to tell him that.

She'd have walked into the room, taken one look at the two men getting themselves slowly and silently drunk, and given them the shrillest tongue-lashing of their lives. And they'd have listened to her rant with smiles growing on their faces before they pounced her for old time's sake, while she shrieked and squealed and futilely attempted to fight them off.

Over in his chair, Ron drained the rest of the firewhiskey as though it were water and leaned over to pour another. Harry drank the contents of his own glass and handed it over to be refilled, feeling the alcohol burn down to his stomach and knowing he would be inured to its fire within a few hours.

It didn't matter. They'd have headaches tomorrow, but the headache was far easier to live with than the heartache. Personally, Harry was surprised they didn't drink like this more often.

Ron lifted his glass to the portrait in toast. "To the smartest witch ever born," he said, his voice clear and proud.

"And to one of the best friends anyone could ask for," Harry answered. His own voice was quieter, less passionate, but then his own feelings for Hermione had never approached Ron's fervency.

For Harry, there was no guilty conscience, nothing left unsaid. Grief, yes; but no regrets at things undone. Harry didn't have that burden on him; he just missed his friend.

Merlin, he missed her.

_Happy Birthday, Hermione._

They drank.

**- fin -**


	2. The Reasons Why

**1. The Reasons Why**

Arthur Weasley had a headache. Mostly to do with his boss.

"Arthur, he has to see... We're stretched thin as it is," Viola Gilweather said, gesticulating in the air before her. Arthur wanted to tell her to stop the gestures; they were getting on his nerves. "We've got thirty Aurors doing the work of nearly twice that. And that's including Mad-Eye - who should have retired decades ago - _and_ the students he's tutored."

"I know the situation, Viola," he said calmly, wishing he had Molly here to rub his temples. "It's my job to know the situation."

"It's also your job to keep Fudge off our backs," Viola retorted, without any particular venom, but still with considerable passion. "There were Dark wizards out there before V...Vol... before You-Know-Who."

"Voldemort?"

Viola flinched, and Arthur felt petty. He had learned not to shudder back from speaking the name of evil - even an evil that had touched his family more times than he cared to remember, but many witches and wizards still struggled with the taboo.

"There were Dark wizards out there before You-Know-Who came along," Viola repeated, taking a deep breath and plunging on. "There'll be Dark wizards long after you and I are dead. _Why_ is it so important for Fudge to have every last one hunted down and tagged?"

There were several answers to that question. Most of them would take more time than Arthur had to answer. "The Minister is concerned for the wizarding world, Viola. You know that. And we're not just hunting any old Dark wizards - we're hunting down Death Eaters. More than any other wizards in the world, we can't afford to let these ones run free. The Minister - and more than just the Minister - wants to see them all safely in Azkaban."

"Arthur," Viola said, her voice rising and her gestures becoming broader, "You-Know-Who is dead thanks to the work of Harry Potter and your son. These people are fighting a crusade without any soul to it. Yes, they're dangerous, but the man's obsessed--"

"With reason." Privately, Arthur agreed with his colleague. Fudge was obsessed with the Death Eaters and had been from the moment he'd admitted Voldemort was back.

"_Not_ with reason, Arthur!" Viola cried, tugging at the long plait she wore down her back. "It's not 'with reason' when we're hunting down every single lead we're given. Fudge has us chasing shadows and jinxing phantoms! The Muggles have a term for this, you know. It's called 'overkill' and it's wearing us down, and you know it!"

Arthur knew it. He knew it only too well as the Head of the Auror Division at the Ministry of Magic. He knew it only too well as he saw the tiredness in the eyes of the Aurors as they came in. He could see it in their expressions as they came in to give their reports, read it in the reports they wrote up for him about each raid, each hunt, each capture. He could feel it with every memo that landed on his desk from Fudge's office, asking about the latest reports on the locations of the two-dozen or so Death Eaters still known to be at liberty in the world.

But Arthur Weasley couldn't do anything about it. He wasn't an Auror, and he wasn't the Minister of Magic. He was just the Head of the Auror Division. Stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"I know it, Viola," he said, quietly. "But I'm not in a position to give Fudge advice."

"You mean Fudge isn't in a place where he'll take advice from you," Viola said. The anger seemed to have drained from her voice. She was a volatile personality, with flash-fiery moments of fury that vanished as easily as they flared up.

Her words confused him. Of course Fudge wasn't in a place where he'd take advice from Arthur - even about the running of Arthur's Division. "I mean I'm not in a position--"

"Arthur, how long are you going to kid yourself about this?" Her blunt question caught him unawares.

"Viola?"

"Everyone knows you're the popular choice for the next Minister of Magic. People have been nervous about Fudge for years - ever since it came clear that he hid the information about Voldemort's return for a whole year before he let the public know. He's due to go sometime, and you're fingered as the next Minister. Everyone knows Albus Dumbledore thinks the world of you and Molly, Arthur. Your family was instrumental in You-Know-Who's defeat. Your youngest son was one of the two who faced him down--"

"My youngest son," Arthur said tiredly, "is out there every day hunting down the same Death Eaters you are. My youngest son who is not yet twenty." He wasn't going to address the matter of the promotion. He knew of the support for his running for Minister - that wasn't important to him. As the Head of the Auror Divison he was doing good work. He just wished he could help his people more. Abruptly he felt the burden of two worlds - father and superior - settle upon his shoulders with painful weight. "I know what you're going through, Viola. I'm not blind. But there is truly nothing I can do. Yes, Cornelius is obsessed with finding those wizards--"

"He's nearly as bad as Barty Crouch was."

"--but he has reason. And I do my best to ease the load wherever I can." It wasn't enough, and he knew that she knew he knew, but still. "I just wish..." He shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. "The Muggles have a saying, 'If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.'"

She cracked him a slight smile. "Still into all things Muggle, Arthur?"

A new voice interrupted from the door. "Dad'll be dead and buried before he stops being interested in the Muggle world, Viola."

The newcomer was tall and definitely a Weasley. Pale, freckled, and red-headed, with his wand casually sticking out of his back pocket in a way that would have given Moody a heart attack, Ron regarded his father with something approaching a challenge.

Arthur regarded his youngest son with exasperation. "Your mother and I taught you better manners than that, Ron."

His son's mouth quirked, and he reached out and rapped sharply against the door. "Hey, Dad, you wanted to see me?"

"I wanted you to wait until I was finished with Viola."

"You said two o'clock," Ron indicated the clock on the wall. "It's five past now."

"It's already--?" Viola turned sharply, her plait lashing out like a whip as she stared in horror at the Muggle clock face. "Oh bother. I was supposed to meet Moody at two!"

"Better hurry then," Ron advised, a small smile on his lips. "Or he'll think you've been attacked by Dark wizards. _CONSTANT VIGILANCE!_" The bellow was remarkably Moody-like - certainly it made both adults jump.

"Thank you for that, Ronald," Arthur said dryly, telling his heart to calm down. Children. Five thousand grey hairs for each one. No wonder he was going bald.

"You're welcome, Dad." 'Ronald' plonked himself down into the chair next to the one Viola was vacating, all arms and legs and red hair. "See ya, Viola. Are you on the Bristol bust on Friday?"

"No. I'm out tomorrow night. It's the wild moors and the Scottish heath that's a-callin' me!" Her attempt at a Scottish accent was terrible, but both Weasleys grinned nevertheless.

"Good luck with the raid, Viola."

"Good luck with the paperwork, Arthur," she responded immediately. Her dark eyes twinkled merrily at him and then she was gone, the door shutting firmly behind her, leaving the two Weasleys alone together.

Not for the first time, Arthur met his son's deep blue stare with the feeling that he didn't know this man who carried the face of his youngest boy. There was no trace of the uncertain child Ron had been, afraid of not being able to live up to the various standards set by his five older brothers. Instead, the mature angles of Ron's face held confidence, assurance, and something that marked him apart with the set of the mouth, the expression in his eyes.

Bitterness.

At the tender age of twenty, Ron Weasley was more jaded than many witches and wizards were at three times that age.

Was it any wonder? At eleven, Ron had become a partisan in the Second War against Voldemort through his friendship with Harry Potter. At sixteen, he'd fought Death Eaters and survived. At the age of eighteen, he'd pointed his wand at the feared and hated Dark Lord and incanted a spell to protect Harry while his friend destroyed the most infamous wizard of all time.

Sometimes it ached in Arthur that Ron hadn't been allowed a childhood the way he and Molly had, the chance to be young and reckless and wild and free.

They'd tried to protect their brood, tried to keep them from joining in a fight they were surely to young to understand, too young to be involved in. One by one, they'd lost their children to the War.

Oh, six of their seven children were still alive and well, but all of them had been involved in the fight against Voldemort. Even Percy had returned to his family bosom in the end - over a year after he'd left it. All of them had paid a price to be involved. And, Arthur knew that if he asked any of them if they regretted it, each would answer with a single, fervent word: _No_.

How strange it was to realise that his youngest son had been the first child they lost - lost from the moment Ron and Harry became friends.

"So," Ron said, regarding his father with a quizzical gaze, "Was there anything you particularly wanted to say, Dad? Or were going to hold the annual inter-generational Weasley staring competitions early this year?"

Arthur was abruptly recalled back to the matter he'd called his son in to discuss. "Actually, I have a request from your mother."

"Wait, let me guess..." Ron put his hands to his temples and narrowed his eyes. "Dinner. Saturday night. Bring Harry."

Arthur supposed it wasn't a difficult thing to guess. Molly enjoyed having the children around her - and it got harder and harder as they spread out across the country.

"And, this time, it would be appreciated if you actually turned up," he said, a little more harshly than he'd intended.

"Dad, it wasn't like I set out to avoid it last time!" Ron protested. "We got stuck in Llangellyn arguing with this stupid old geezer about the rigidity of Harry's wand..." He spotted his father's inexorable face and threw up his hands. "It was _not_ deliberate - as I told Mum for weeks afterwards. I mean, do you think I _like_ Harry's cooking?" He made a face.

It would have been easier to converse with his son if the son in question hadn't been so intent on making light of everything. "So that is a 'yes', then?"

"Don't know if Harry has anything on, but if he doesn't, and unless the bust in Bristol goes bad, we're there. Hey," he added, looking hopefully at his father, "any chance Mum could make bread-and-butter pudding? It's been _ages_ since I had bread-and-butter pudding..."

Arthur had a momentary memory of his tiny, red-headed son, bouncing excitedly at the prospect of his eighth birthday dinner. The twins had ended up wrecking that one with one of their pranks, and Ron had been so upset he hexed the pair of them without a wand. "I'll ask," he said, his voice softening a little. "Although if you came home more often you'd increase your chances of having your mum cook for you. And please turn up this time, Ron. Ginny's due back from China--"

"What, early?"

"It's been four months."

"No way!" Ron shook his head in disbelief. "It's been...a week. Maybe two. A month at most."

Arthur resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "She left in June. What month is it now?"

"Nearly October. Wow, four months..." There was mischief in the blue eyes as he remarked, "Maybe she should stay away longer. Absence and the heart growing fonder and all that..."

"Ron..." No matter that his son was joking and that Arthur was glad of the teasing, a part of him couldn't be 'unwired' from the father chiding his son for teasing his younger sister.

"Kidding, Dad! Merlin! Anyway, what were you talking to Viola about?" How swiftly Ron changed from the cheerful young man to the somber-faced Auror! The change only heightened his father's awareness that the son was no longer a child but a working adult, well aware of the issues plaguing his department.

There was a second when Arthur considered lying to Ron, or dismissing the topic out of hand. But he saw the brief, mutinous set of the face, and knew that he would tell Ron the truth. "The undersupply of Aurors for the work we have."

"You mean the way Fudge has us checking out every mousehole in the country and continent?" At his father's expression, Ron threw out his hands, exasperated. "Oh, come on, Dad! It's common knowledge that Fudge is mad to get the Death Eaters in. If he could make up a spell for it, he'd have done it years ago."

"Ron, Fudge has good reason--"

"No," Ron contradicted him, growing irritated with his father's explanations. "He doesn't. His reasons for hunting them down are entirely to do with the idiot he was made to look after Malfoy Senior was soul-sucked. Dumbledore was right when he said Fudge had his head stuck up his arse for the sake of his position as Minister of Magic. And _don't_ give me lectures on what I can and can't say!" The glance Ron gave him showed he'd seen Arthur's reprimand coming.

"He is your boss and, as such, deserves your professional respect." Never mind that Arthur privately agreed with his son's estimate of Cornelius Fudge.

"Respect is earned," Ron told him, angrily. "He hasn't done a thing to earn mine. And he'd have to do a bloody lot to gain it!"

His son was about to launch into a diatribe against Fudge, and Arthur looked for a way to head it off. Of all his children, Ron could be the most volatile, switching from a laconic, easy-going bystander to a furiously passionate defender in the blink of an eye.

Of all his children, Ron had the greatest personal reasons to dislike Fudge.

"Ron--"

The knock on the door of his office proved a timely interruption.

"Come in."

The young man who opened the door, however, was the last person Arthur wanted to see while Ron was here.

Why add oil to tinder brush?

"You wanted the reports on the leads through Europe, Arthur?" There was no conciliation in the tone of voice as he addressed the older man. "I can come back later if you prefer."

Arthur didn't look at Ron, sitting, bristling in his chair like a porcupine ready to fling quills. "No, now will be fine, Mr Malfoy."

He got a raised eyebrow from the young man as the door opened more fully and he saw who else sat in the room with his superior. But Draco Malfoy didn't ask if he was sure. He simply took his seat, casually fastidious in comparison with Ron's languid pose. No greetings were exchanged between the two of them, just a look of intense loathing.

The two young men fought on the same side. That didn't make them friends, anymore than Sirius Black and Severus Snape had been friends while working for the Order of the Phoenix. They tolerated each other, that was all.

For Arthur's part, he treated Draco Malfoy with all the respect that the young man had earned in his time working at the Ministry. He could pity Malfoy as his son could not; the boy had lost far more than just his family standing - and he knew it.

"You started in Romania?"

"In Romania, down to the Czech Republic, and across to Turkey," Malfoy stated, his words crisp and precise. "The lead we had was tenuous at best, the witch in question had a puffball addiction. She could barely remember her own name, let alone identify the faces I showed her." His lip curled in contempt. "But I checked through the villages she could name. There wasn't much to begin with, in the smaller towns, they notice strangers."

"Ever heard of Polyjuice?" Ron asked, scorn tinting his voice.

Malfoy barely glanced at him, "Strange behaviour is noticed, too," he said, obliquely answering the criticism. "These people have lived with each other for decades. They know routines and habits, and any deviations are gossip fodder for the whole village." The pale, pointed face smiled, thinly, "My presence in several of these villages should provide gossip for the next few years, anyway."

"I suppose it's not every day you see a talking ferret, after all," Ron remarked, airily.

Arthur resisted the urge to smack his son, but his angry, "Ron--" was overtaken by Draco's incisive retort.

"Weasley, you make an ass of yourself every time you open your mouth."

"Better an ass than a traitor."

"Oh? And you'd have preferred me to stick with the Dark Lord, then?" Malfoy asked, ice seeping through his voice. "You'd have lost your precious war without my help, Weasley. Potter or not."

Ron snorted, "I'd prefer to see you stuck behind a desk where Moody can keep an eye on you rather than have you running around with your old Death Eater pals."

It was clear that a nerve had been scraped, because Malfoy's answer held more than a touch of venom. "My 'old Death Eater pals,' as you so name them, are gradually being rounded up and sent to Azkaban."

"Not enough of them." The snap made it clear that Ron considered that Malfoy should be among those sent to the wizarding prison.

"Gentlemen!" Arthur attempted intervention.

They were too angry to notice his interruption, or care about it.

"More than you'd have without me," Malfoy hissed, pale eyes narrowed to ice-grey chips.

"But not the inner circle," Ron retorted, blue eyes spitting fire.

"That's not my problem."

"Are you implying it's mine?"

"And here I thought we were saving the hatred for the people who deserved it," said a new voice, clear and bright and cool.

Arthur met the sardonic dark gaze of Nymphadora Tonks where she stood in the open doorway. Over her shoulder, the gleam of glasses under messy black hair indicated that Harry was with her.

He wasn't sure whether to sigh in relief at the interruption or groan at the prospect of a third party to the argument between the two young men. He chose, instead, to address Tonks. "Does _anyone_ happen to knock these days? Or has that become outdated, too?"

She grinned easily. "Actually, we did knock. Looks like you missed it amidst all the...er...excitement." She turned her gaze more coolly on Ron and Draco. "Stow the argument, boys. However hard you might find it to believe, we _are_ all on the same side."

"Sometimes, I confess to being amazed that you actually _won_," Draco remarked, acidly. "Saint Potter notwithstanding."

"You've got a smart mouth on you, Malfoy," Ron retorted. "Want me to shut it for you?"

"As if you could!"

"You were right, you know, Tonks," Harry interrupted them both with the dry sardonicism that seemed to be his most-common attitude lately. "It's amazing that either of them are let out of sight of the Ministry."

These days, Arthur reflected, it was touch and go as to whether Harry would join in baiting Malfoy, or stand back and rein Ron in. Today, it looked like it was stand back and balance Ron out. Thank Merlin.

"Vote of confidence, there, Harry."

"That's what your mates are for." The two friends exchanged dry half-smiles.

"Oh, if this gets any more saccharine, I'm going to spew," Malfoy snapped. "Is there any chance of getting rid of these two and giving my report? Or should I just come back in an hour and hope that they haven't started The Mutual Club For Back-Patting Losers in this office?"

Enough was quite enough.

Even as Ron drew breath to deliver a blistering retort, Arthur stepped in with a warning. "Mr Malfoy," he said, formally, "Your point about the interruption of your report is valid. Your attitude is not. As Tonks has indicated, lose the argumentativeness. Ron, your behaviour towards Draco was unacceptable, both as my son and as an Auror-in-training. You will apologise to him--"

"When hell freezes over!" Ron snapped. His expression made the point exceedingly clear, even without the very apt Muggle phrase or the fury in his voice. "Sorry to shame the family name, Dad, but--"

"--but if you want to be in on the Bristol job this Friday," Tonks interposed smoothly, glancing at Arthur to let him know she had this situation under control, "You will apologise to Draco. And he will apologise back if he knows what's good for him."

The disapproval of a distinctive and respected woman did more to cow the pair of them than anything Arthur could have said. And it might have ended there, if Draco hadn't given his two knuts' worth.

"You're assuming I did anything to 'shame the family name,' Tonks."

"As though the Malfoys could get any lower--"

"Weasley, shut your mouth--"

"You've already said that once, Malfoy. Running out of threats?"

"BOYS!" Arthur's furious roar shut them both up. He'd fathered six noisy, boisterous boys and parented them as well. He knew how to make himself heard above a cacophony, even if he didn't always like using it. "You will apologise to each other! Now!"

The apologies were muttered and made without eye contact. Neither was sincere, but it would have to do. As Viola had pointed out, the Auror Division was short-staffed, and they couldn't afford to have even Aurors-in-Training sitting on the sidelines for disciplinary situations.

"Now," he said grimly, knuckles on the desk, "Ron and Harry, I believe that you have somewhere to be." When Ron opened his mouth to protest, Arthur added, "Somewhere that is _not here_." He looked pointedly towards the door.

Harry chuckled, breaking the tension. At least someone was amused by the conflict. "We're due to check in with Moody anyway. Make sure we haven't lost our buttocks in a wand accident or something."

Ron rolled his eyes as he circumnavigated Malfoy's chair like someone avoiding a venomous snake. "Because, yeah, Moody cares so much about our buttocks."

"Enough! Out!" Tonks stood aside and gave Ron an ungentle nudge into the corridor. Her expression held both exasperation and affection for the two young Aurors-in-training. "Bristol, Friday, sunset. If you're late, you'll be on watch duty."

"Aw, Tonks!"

"So, don't be late," she said.

"And I'll see you two at dinner on Saturday," Arthur added as they slipped out the door. He would have liked to sit Ron down and get a talk in about behaviour before superiors and with fellow Ministry employees, but that would have to wait until later.

Too many things to do, not enough time. The story of Arthur Weasley's life.

The door clicked shut behind Ron and Harry. "Tonks." He indicated the chair his son had vacated. "If you would take a seat."

"Sure thing, Arthur." By some feat of amazing grace, she managed not to knock anything over before she flopped down in the leather-backed chair, arms and legs akimbo. "The report from Eastern Europe?" She looked inquiringly towards Draco.

"Yes." Now that Ron was no longer needling him, Draco seemed considerably less mordant. Which was a relief. One angry young man was more than enough for Arthur to handle.

"So, what did you find?"

----

Draco Malfoy was well aware of the irony of his situation.

The son of one of Voldemort's most well-known supporters; he worked with the people who had worked to bring down the Dark Lord. A fierce proponent of pureblood superiority; he interacted daily with Muggle-lovers and Muggleborns. A one-time Death Eater, he tracked them down one by one and had them sent to Azkaban.

Ten years ago, if a seer had told him his future, he'd firstly have hexed the life out of her, then laughed all the way home.

Life, Draco had learned, rarely turned out the way one expected.

"You're sure about this?"

"As sure as I can be without walking up and knocking on doors," Draco replied. He kept the edge out of his voice. The older man wanted to be sure before he sent the Aurors in to check out the leads Draco provided; Draco could understand that. A part of him still resented the questioning of his skills, his abilities, his loyalties.

A part of him still resented being told off. Even if Weasley had received the same treatment from his dad. Unlike Professor Snape, Arthur Weasley didn't play favourites, even with his kids. It made working with him tolerable, if not pleasant.

"You know your work better than I, and I trust that." Arthur said, almost as if he'd heard the silent protest. "That doesn't stop me from requiring confirmation."

Draco conceded the point. "Dolohov has certain patterns he adheres to," he said, after a moment's thought. "He has a fondness for adolescent girls. Preferably Muggles or Muggle-born. He likes them to have some power, but not too much. For him, the struggle is a challenge." He saw the revulsion on the faces of the two adults before him and allowed himself a sour smile. "Several girls are missing from a Muggle village in the area. Recently taken. It's being blamed on local political troubles and the presence of American Muggles in the region."

He pulled his wand and, without asking for permission, waved it in the air over the table. "_Cartografus!_"

A miniature village appeared before them, stretching out over the paper-strewn surface.

Tonks gaped at the likeness. "Didn't know you could do the cartographer's casting," she said, impressed.

Draco smirked a little, pleased by the implied compliment, but he didn't respond directly to it. Instead, he began indicating the houses of the town, closely spaced together. "I went through the town - ostensibly on Muggle business. They're used to foreigners - there's an American military base a few miles out of town. A few sideways looks from the Muggles, but they were willing to accept my story. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"I had to obliviate one of them when he got nosey."

"Draco!"

He regarded Arthur with mild irritation. "It was that or have my cover blown. The idiot thought I was some kind of spy. He caught me charming my last correspondence, and it was act or be found out." Draco folded his arms. "He woke up thinking he'd drunk too much the previous night." It had been a singularly beautiful piece of work, if Draco said so himself.

"You know how the Association Internationale des Sorciers feels--"

He didn't disguise the noise of disgust that sprung from his lips. "If they want the Death Eaters brought in - and there are hardly any of them that don't - then they have to allow for some unauthorised acts of wizardry to take place in their country."

"Nevertheless..." Weasley's dad had a fondness for the rules. Bloody Gryffindors and their courage and honour crap. You did what you needed to do to survive. That was the Slytherin's way, and Draco was a Slytherin to the core, even in this.

"Arthur," Tonks spoke up, almost surprisingly.

"Tonks, he can't just break the rules--"

"No, he can't," she answered. "The rules are there for a reason. But sometimes we _have_ to break them in order to do what's right." Dark eyes fixed on Draco, gently warning. "Don't go making it a habit, though!"

"You'd hex me long before I did," he told her. In spite of her Muggleborn dad, Tonks was okay.

"Too right!" Tonks smirked. "And Mum would hang you up by your heels and send you to bed without any supper. Which reminds me; drop by the house before you go back out East. The parentals were nagging me for news of you and I couldn't give them any. You might as well stop by and deliver it yourself."

"I may not have time--"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Make the time," he said simply. "And that's an order." When Tonks arched an eyebrow at him, he admitted, "Molly was saying the same thing about Ron and Harry the other day, so I know how it is."

Which explained the 'Saturday night dinner' remark as Weasley and Potter had exited stage left.

But this was an unnecessary sidetrack. "If I may continue," he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He got a hard look for that, but Arthur waved at him to keep going.

He indicated the town. "Unlike the smaller mountain villages, this town is reasonably busy. There are enough new people coming and going that strangers aren't commented on unless they're distinctive." Like Draco Malfoy. "It makes it a good place to hide out. Several of the local girls are missing, and with the assistance of a gentle recollection charm--"

"Draco--"

"Their memories were the better for it after," Draco pointed out, stemming the protest. "And I got the information I needed. With the assistance of the charm, a number of people remembered a man matching Dolohov's description in the town. He stayed here," he indicated one house with his wand, circling the tip in the air, "and was gone two days later. The girls started vanishing after he left, so they didn't associate the two."

"Do they know where he went?"

"He said he was headed up to Constantinople. But there's a farmhouse out here." Draco muttered the incantation to move the map over, and the perspective of the town changed and refocused on a large farmhouse some miles outside of the main cluster of buildings. "It's been abandoned for years, they said. But when I went out to investigate, a simple _Disilluri_ showed lights on in the house."

Arthur pulled out his wand and glanced at Draco for permission before swirling his wand 'into' the map and muttering, "_Reducto!_" The map got smaller and smaller, and stopped when it was small enough to encompass the cluster of the town, the distant farmhouse, and the nearby Muggle base. "So close to both a Muggle town and the military base?"

"The town would provide the occasional victim," Tonks offered. "And the base would provide cover. With so much activity happening in the area, nobody would notice what was happening in one isolated, apparently abandoned farmhouse."

"You didn't have time to check the farmhouse?"

"Not yet. I didn't want someone to come looking for me at a bad time. I thought I'd leave a report, then head in to check it out." Draco knew his smile was sour. "At least then I wouldn't have Moody on my trail bellowing stuff about recklessness and inconsideration." The crusty old Auror was okay, but Draco was never completely comfortable around him. The ferret incident during his fourth year at Hogwarts was too clearly emblazoned on his memory. The fact that it had been Barty Crouch, Jr. who actually cast the charm on Draco didn't factor into his reactions. The very sight of that rolling glass eye glaring at him for whatever reason was enough to take Draco back to the humiliation of 'Malfoy, the Amazing Bouncing Ferret.'

And Weasley never lost a chance to rub that one in, which only made it worse.

"Good work," Arthur said, nodding at him in approval, unaware of Draco's memories. "Have you written up the report?"

"Not yet. I'll do that before I leave." At Tonks' cough, he regarded her mildly. "_And_ I'll drop in on your parents."

She grinned, her former anger with him gone as swiftly and cleanly as if she'd changed forms and left it behind. "I'd say 'good boy' but you'd probably hex me." Her eyes twinkled at him.

He would.

Draco Malfoy didn't let anyone in close. Since his father's soul-sucking four years ago, he'd been pretty much alone and independent in the world. Family had not been something he desired. Friendship even less so. His father's words still echoed in him with all the force of an Unforgiveable curse. _No witch or wizard is your friend, Draco. They will either use you or be used by you._

But the precepts of his father were not a consideration when Andromeda Tonks, _née_ Black, came upon Draco visiting his mother two years ago, just after Voldemort's defeat .

He remembered her brand of passion from another woman whose haggard face held hints of the wild beauty she'd once been. The years had been kinder to Andromeda than they'd been to Bellatrix, but the similarity of their blood could not be denied, not the least in his aunt's insistence that Draco give some form to the ties of blood between them.

He wasn't 'close' to the Tonks. But he was closer to them than he was to many others whom he saw far more often.

"Well, make sure the report is on my desk before you leave for Turkey, Draco." Arthur was speaking again. "Leave a brief of what you plan to do - if there are any unexpected changes, owl me. And take one of the Floo Lighters with you when you go. I know they're still experimental, but if you find anything important, we'll need to know right away." He scrubbed a hand through thinning and greying red hair. "It's been three months since our last Death Eater arrest."

"Fudge is getting antsy again, huh?" Tonks asked with a snort.

"You could say that." Arthur sat back, his hair forgotten as he folded his hands on his stomach. "And he's not the only one. The idea of Death Eaters still on the loose doesn't do much for public confidence - especially when Muggles and Muggleborns are still targeted."

"We're not going to get them all, Arthur."

"I know. And most of them aren't too much of a danger as long as they're isolated. It's the ones who were Voldemort's inner circle that have me most worried. Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov especially."

For a moment, Draco was confused about why they were discussing this in front of him. He was one of the youngest Aurors working for the Ministry, and not fully trained at that. Then Arthur turned to him and the reasons became clear. "Do you have any insights into the situation of the Death Eaters now that Voldemort is gone, Draco?"

On his forearm, the invisible Dark Mark burned. Not with the agonising pain that meant the Dark Lord was calling on his chosen, but with the slow smoulder of Draco's resentment.

"I spent one year in the Dark Lord's service before I betrayed him," he said, slowly, holding onto his anger. _I am master of my temper, it does not master me_. "And I was mostly at school during that time and the year after." He met Arthur's gaze steadily, not bothering to hide his offence at the question. "I didn't get to know the other Death Eaters the way you seem to think I did."

Arthur looked back at him, calm in the face of Draco's gathering anger. "I'm not questioning your loyalty, Draco. But you are in a unique position regarding insight into the people who chose to follow Voldemort - to serve him and kill in his name."

Draco wasn't entirely sure he believed him. But he had little choice. Not if he wanted the other Death Eaters hunted down. And he did. If nothing else, it was pure Slytherin practicality on Draco's part. At the very least, Bellatrix would come after him - his aunt was as single-minded about her hatreds as she was about her loves, and Draco was very fond of his skin. Too fond, as some people had accused in the past and would accuse in the future.

"Generally, they're angry. Resentful. They backed the Dark Lord and he fell. Most of them have given up hope that he will come back a second time, but a few are still believers." He got up from his chair, feeling a sudden need to stand, to talk to empty air and not be under the microscope of two of the most trusted people in his world.

The room was full of bookshelves, but other than a couple of rows of books, the shelves were taken up with other things. Muggle artefacts, oddities, peculiarities; the fruits of Arthur's well-known and oft laughed-at preoccupation with any and all things Muggle.

He reached out and touched a 'portable CD player', popping open the lid without first asking permission. There wasn't a 'disc' inside it, the flat, circular piece of 'plastic' which somehow played Muggle music when you pressed the right buttons on the player. Crazy Muggle stuff. Wizarding was so much better.

"Some really believed in him. They'll be the most dangerous. Bellatrix Lestrange is the best example of this. She went to Azkaban for the Dark Lord, and everything she does is focused on him." Draco snorted, remembering a long-ago overheard conversation between his parents. "Dad said it was a wonder she married at all given how passionate she was about the Dark Lord." He shut the lid of the 'player' and turned, grimacing. "If she has any students, they'll be dangerous too. Aunt Bella is charismatic in her own way." He glanced at Tonks. "Kinda like your Mum. She says something and you'll do it because she said you should."

"It never worked on my room."

His mouth quirked faintly at Tonks, before he turned his mind back to the question he'd been asked. They'd wanted his opinion; he was going to give it to them. "Dolohov was devoted to the Dark Lord because he saw the greatest advantage for his own ambitions. Oh, he believes firmly in wizarding purity, but it's not a crusade for him. It's...it's a..." He struggled to remember the Muggle word for it. "It's a sci-en-ti-fic interest. As though they're all things to be picked over and picked apart until he finds out what makes them tick."

A glance at Arthur showed the older man watching intently. "It's like your love of Muggle things - only his is Muggles, and they can't be put back together once he's pulled them apart."

He looked quickly away as something stung his eyes. Not tears, because a Malfoy didn't weep. After two years of silence, the best for which he could hope was that death had been swift. His eyes rested briefly on the ring he word on his left second finger; the silver rune inlaid with green enamel. It gleamed up at him as his mind translated the rune, just as it had a thousand times before. _Mine_.

"There are others from the inner circle to watch out for," Draco said, aware that his silence had stretched too long. His voice husked briefly before he controlled it. He was a Malfoy; they were masters of themselves as well as the masters of others. "Faghence wanted power, and the Dark Lord was his way to achieve it. He won't go quietly - if he can't have power, he'll have infamy instead. De Vere believes in the superiority of purebloods..." The litany would go on and on. Draco ceased the recitation, shrugging. "Each of us had our own reasons to follow the Master."

"The Master?" Arthur asked. His voice was quiet, but Draco could hear the question in it.

"He marked us as his own," he said, harshly. "We belonged to him. We served him. We called him Master because that was what he was; he gave the orders, we obeyed. It was do what he said, or die." A bitter smile curved his lip. "Even Dumbledore gave me the choice in betrayal." The words were scarred into him. '_I cannot make you do this, Mr Malfoy. And I will not. It will be your own choice or not at all._'

And another voice in his memory said, '_That is your future if you choose it, Draco. If _you_ choose it._'

"We were all there for our own reasons, but he made them his and used us accordingly."

He heard the soft scrape of Tonks' chair against carpet as she made room for her legs to stretch out. "And you were there because...?"

Draco turned and met the black-eyed gaze of his cousin's 'natural' form. "I was there for revenge."

--


	3. Neosso Irrado

**WARNING**: This chapter contains adult situations, but is within the 'R' rating. (RL/NT)

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**: I borrowed the idea of the 'Floo Lighter' from another author. It's not my brilliant invention, I'm afraid, but I can't remember quite whose it is. At any rate, many of the things in my story are my conceptualisation, many are JKRs, but that one belongs to a very ingenious writer out there. Kudos to her and I hope she doesn't mind my borrowing the idea for this story!

Also, I am aware that JKR has said she's going to depose Fudge as Minister, which is her right and privilege as the author of the series upon which this fanfic is based. However, in this continuity, for the purpose of this story, let's imagine that Fudge is still in power.

Finally, thank you to the people who have sent feedback on this story. Your encouragement has helped in some pretty dark times. And much love to Yolanda who has been a fantastic beta regarding directions and encouragement.

**2. Neosso Irrado**

In the streets of the posh Bristol suburb of Clifton, a delicate mist of rain would have made the stakeout unbearable, but for the _Impervius _that vanished the drops mere inches away from the skin. To a passing Muggle, the wizards on the stakeout might look a little odd, all dry in the misting wet, but it was late, and all sensible Muggles were inside and in bed, asleep.

Those that weren't sensible were easily diverted by the 'suggestion' spells that the Aurors had cast about the area._ Did I leave my wallet at the pub? Maybe I should go and stay at a friend's place for the night. It looks way too dark to walk down there, I'll go along the other street..._

Somewhere down the road, along the line of cast-iron fences, cats yowled, hissing and spitting with feline hatred. Cars drove through the sodden streets, their wheels rolling wetly through the puddles, spitting up tiny flurries of water in their wake. Overhead, the trees rustled damply, losing their leaves in the autumn cold, the remaining foliage clinging desperately to the branch as the raindrops pattered across their broad surfaces.

And down on the ground, the shadows moved with predatory intent towards a house. It was no different to any other house in the street, except for the fact that the man who owned it was a wizard - a Death Eater - as were his wife, and the guests who had been staying there for nearly six months.

Tonks always hoped for one of her jobs to go without a hitch. Hitches were bad; they meant Aurors down, spells everywhere, a great deal of confusion, and even more paperwork.

She'd never been much of one for paperwork.

And, to begin with, everything seemed fine.

In the living room of the house, Harry's glasses gleamed as he paused in the stream of pale, sickly streetlight pouring through the chintz-curtained window, and Tonks laid her wand against the wall and whispered a spell. The _Silencio_ could be cast on buildings, but it required wand contact to maintain the spell: that, or a supremely powerful witch. Tonks had found it easier to maintain contact with the house. With her clumsiness, she was wasted stumbling through an unknown house, far better to leave that to those with the skills and grace for it.

Four dark shadows stole by her.

Then a fifth shadow detached itself from the darkness. "_Accio_ wa--"

"_Protego_! _Immobulus_!"

Harry cast the first spell before the wizard could finish his incantation. Ron took him down with a well-aimed punch behind the ear and tied him up with a hissed, "_Incarcerous_!"

It was all over in less than ten seconds, and with a single exchanged glance-and-nod, the two moved up the stairs on silent feet.

Alf Hannon shot Tonks a meaningful glance as he knelt down beside the older wizard. "Harkanon Grimsby," he muttered. "Wondered what happened to him after the explosion in Newcastle." Then, without anything more on the subject, he continued through the ground level of the house with Vel Pearson. The two young men had moved to take out the threat as neatly and certainly as a couple of Aurors who'd been working together for decades. It was just one of the reasons Fudge had pulled every string to get the two through Auror training and out on the street.

As her team spread out, and she kept watch, Tonks had a momentary hope that this bust would go as smoothly as they never did. The outraged screech that came from a witch upstairs negated that idea immediately.

Overhead, there was a scuffle and something exploded with a bang. Then someone incanted the Cruciatus.

_Sweet Merlin..._

"Alf, Vel!"

Alf was already halfway up the stairs at her cry, his wand out and ready. Vel was slower, glancing back at Tonks to check that she was okay. "Just go," she said sharply. The older Auror vanished up the remainder of the stairs, and a moment later, two more voices added to the cacophony overhead.

Tonks kept her back against the hallway wall, her wand tip raised, her eyes darting through the darkness. She kept her senses alert, in case another Death Eater lurked in the shadows, waiting for the moment to strike.

More shouts and grunts overhead. A scream, a curse, a cry of pain, and then the words Tonks hoped never to hear while on a bust: "_Avada Kedavra!_"

There was the sound of a massive explosion upstairs, mingled with more voices casting spells. Then silence.

A little plaster dust sifted down from overhead.

With her right hand still holding the wand against the wall, Tonks' left hand slipped into her pocket and pulled out the Floo Lighter. Some brilliant little witch in another country had come up with the idea three years ago, patented it, and made herself a tidy profit from the sales. The Muggle-born witch's reasoning had been: if you could travel by Floo, why couldn't you send other things by Floo, as well? She flicked the flame on, careful not to look at it so her night vision wouldn't be ruined. "Alf?"

Silence.

"Harry?"

_Crapcrapcrapcrapcrap..._

"Ron?"

She stared up at the ceiling, willing everyone to be okay. They'd been working together for nearly six months now and, other than one resignation, they'd kept everyone alive and in one piece.

Then there were the sounds of footsteps overhead and a shaky voice came through the Floo Lighter. "We're okay, Tonks," Alf said. "All okay, nobody dead. It missed Harry by inches, but he's..." The older man blew out a breath. "He's good. We're all good."

She laughed, a little shaky herself. Standing and waiting for the others to get the job done was slightly nerve-wracking. At the end of the night, she had adrenaline coursing through her veins, but nothing on which to take it out.

"We're bringing them down." In comparison to Alf's relieved voice, Harry's light tenor sounded cool, almost unconcerned about the attack. "No others up here, we're clear. On our way down."

She envied him his nerves. Her own weren't all that steady right now.

The Lighter went back into her pocket, and with all the Death Eaters subdued, she took her wand off the wall. The Death Eater on the floor was levitated to an upright, hovering position. The man writhed, but Ron's bindings held him fast. A moment later, he was joined by one of his colleagues, also bound and twisting.

In the darkness of the house, the floating prisoners made an odd and slightly eerie sight with their feet drifting above the floor and their eyes fixed upon the Aurors in malevolent hatred. Tonks met the gazes coolly, refusing to let them get to her. She'd seen their type before - she'd dealt with their type before - and with a flick of her wand, ushered them out the door under Vel's care.

Alf followed them out with two more prisoners a moment later, with a faint smile and nod for Tonks.

Which just left the two young Aurors.

Ron clattered down the stairs, not bothering with stealth now that the house had been emptied. "All clear, Tonks."

"Good work," she said. "Harry okay?"

A lift of one shoulder said it all. "He says he's fine," Ron remarked. "But he got hit by a _Cruciatus_," he added. "So I wouldn't trust anything he says about being 'fine.'"

"Tattletale." Harry scowled at Ron as he descended the stairs, then turned to her. "Might want to get the curse-breakers through here later, Tonks. Their bedside reading includes '_Of Curses and Cruciatus_.' Probably not theoretical, either."

"Will do," Tonks assured him. "You're okay?"

"Fine," he said, then levelled another glare at Ron.

Ron shrugged, not apparently bothered by his friend's annoyance. "'_It is the job of the lead Auror of a team to know the injuries and spells which have been cast upon their team_,'" he quoted from the Auror's rulebook.

That brought a half-smirk to Harry's face. "Since when have _you_ ever followed the rules?"

"_I _followed the rules," Ron said, holding his hands out wide in a 'who me' gesture. "It was following my best mate into trouble that got me into the habit of breaking them!"

Harry had just opened his mouth for a pithy retort when there was a cry from outside.

As they made for the door, a single word was spat into the night, and a bright light flashed through the darkness.

They tumbled out of the door and into the street. "_Lumos!_" Tonks cried, choosing visibility over stealth, risking public notice over public danger.

The glow from her wand tip illuminated Alf clutching his throat, and Vel's still form in the gutter. It also illuminated the man crouched over her, blinking in the sudden light.

The hood of his robes held his face in shadow, but Tonks caught the impression of chubby jowls and a pug nose - Terence De Vere. He looked up and his face convulsed into hatred at the sight of Harry.

His wand rose as he incanted, "_Avada Ked--_"

"_Silencio!_" Harry bellowed.

The man's lips finished the incantation, but no sound came out. A moment later Ron smacked into him with all the force of a rugby player in a scrum, tumbling them out into the street. De Vere went flying in one direction, his wand in another. The next moment, Ron had his knee on the man's chest and his wand at the man's throat. "Don't even think about it," he said, as De Vere glanced around for his wand.

"Blood traitor filth," spat the Death Eater, his face contorting into a grimace of pure hatred. "Consorting with Mudbloods--gakk!" He choked a little as Ron dug the tip of his wand deeper into the heavy jowls.

Tonks was at Vel's side, checking for a pulse. In the background she could hear Ron warning De Vere against the language.

"She okay?" Harry asked, Alf beside him.

Her fingers encountered a sticky patch, matting Vel's fine blonde hair. "Hit her head. She'll need a mediwitch."

"Alf can take her," Harry said, crossing over to check on the tied-up Death Eaters. "Get that throat checked."

The older man was breathing hard, and Tonks gave him a quick, concerned look. He shook his head. "I'm okay," he rasped. "Got me in the throat with a choking spell."

"Harry's right," she said, "You get to St. Mungo's. Harry, Ron and I will get these ones to Azkaban--"

She was interrupted by the sound of a fist hitting flesh, and turned so hard on her heel that she fell into the gutter on her backside. The wash of water and wet leaf mulch against her butt hardly registered as she saw Ron raise his fist for a second punch.

_What the...?_

A moment later, the Death Eater's sibilant words drifted through the drizzling night. "--screamed like a pig when they _Crucio'd_ her." From the corner of her eye, Tonks saw Harry move as Ron's backhand interrupted De Vere's tirade.

"One more word," the redhead breathed, a furious tremble in his voice. "Just one more word--"

"You'll what, Weasley?" The pale slitted eyes burned with a deep fanaticism. "Perform the Killing curse? Like they did on your Mudblood bitch--"

"We don't need the Killing curse," Harry said, his voice flat and cold. The polish of his wand gleamed sinister in the dark, and De Vere doubled up, cursing as Ron planted a fist that was decidedly below the belt. "Hermione gave us something else to work with!"

Ron rose from his crouch over the gasping Death Eater, and pulled out his wand in a fluid movement.

Tonks started up, and even as she did, knew she'd be too late to stop them. Everything contracted down to focus on the two young men, their wands, and the Death Eater who lay prone on the ground before them.

They spoke in unison, as one, and for all their difference in height and appearance, there was no differentiating between the hatred in their voices. "_Eliminatus!_" Twin lances of fiery blue light emerged from their wands, and burned into De Vere; around them, the world shuddered and shifted, warping with the strength of the _Eliminatus_.

De Vere's expression of pain and hatred wavered for a split second, then twisted into agony. He screamed, a long, dying wail like a bagpipes running out of air, and it rent the night's silence like nails dragged down a blackboard. The cry was more animal than human, and something in Tonks shuddered and hid beneath blankets of comfort and safety.

The body sagged and went limp. Flesh shrivelled like a deflating balloon, then disintegrated like dried leaves rotting. Bone crumbled like chalk, heaping in piles that then sifted away on a wind from nowhere. One moment, a plump, middle aged wizard had lain on the ground; now there was nothing there to show he'd even existed.

Nothing, except the two young men standing over the empty spot, their wand hands trembling with the force of their rage and grief.

They weren't the only ones trembling.

----

He heard the mug shatter as he reached the foot of the stairs. She cursed, and the roughness of her voice plainly told him her state of mind.

Not that he'd needed much indication after she'd failed to come to bed.

Remus Lupin pushed open the kitchen door to reveal one haggard-looking metamorphmagus Auror crouched on the tiled floor with her wand hovering over the fragmented shards of the mug.

"_Reparo!_" The pieces shivered and collected together, the cracks sealing up and making the shattered crockery whole again.

He waited until she'd laid the repaired mug on the table before speaking. "I thought we talked about drinking coffee after midnight."

She turned, nearly knocking the mug off the table again in her surprise. "I wasn't--" Tonks began, sounding like a child caught stealing sweets. He pointed at the percolator jug and coffee grounds on the bench, and she blushed. "I was just going to have a little bit."

Remus shook his head and pulled a saucepan from beneath the stove. "I'm guessing that you didn't consider the effect of your coffee on me when you come to bed and toss and turn for the rest of the night?" He arched a brow at her as he laid the saucepan over the hotplate, "Unless you weren't planning to come to bed?"

Another blush - this one visible on the back of her neck - the only part of her skin that he could see since she'd turned back to the corner and seemed to be continuing her preparations for coffee-making. Remus walked up behind her and brushed a hand lightly through her hair - short, electric-blue locks today. "What happened?"

"What makes you think something happened?" She was nonchalant, as though nothing had happened. Remus frowned a little. Tonks knew better than to try to hide her troubles from him, but she still made the effort at this time of the month, not wishing to burden him with more than he already carried.

"It's the full moon in about twenty hours," he said, slipping an arm around her waist, and holding her close against his front. "I can smell it on you."

She sighed and tilted her head back against his throat, her hands stilling on the spoon and coffee jar. Over the years, she'd become accustomed to the gentle waxing and waning of his moods - a cycle dictated by the moon that ruled his life as a werewolf. Over the last few years, he'd become accustomed to adjusting his moods according to her presence in his life. There were rough patches, but there always were rough patches in relationships. They worked through them.

Tonks tilted her head back, looking up at him with teasing eyes. "What do I smell of?"

It was a game between them, something they'd played for the two years they'd been together. Another person might have tried to forget what he was - Merlin knew that sometimes Remus tried to forget what he was. Tonks, perhaps because of her own changeling tendencies, simply accepted it and treated it like one more thing he could do. Her casual references to his lycanthropy had shocked others, but they endeared her to him.

Remus slid his nose through her hair. "Hair dye and gel," he answered immediately, and felt her elbow him lightly. He tickled her ear with his lips, then slid them down her throat. "Earwax, vanilla-scented soap - you stole mine, don't think I haven't noticed - and sweat." He paused at the curve where her throat met her shoulder. The nape and throat were very powerful places for scent-based emotions, forming a cloud that betrayed the individual's state of mind. Tonks was a storm of emotions right now. "Anxiety, worry, stress, anger, and fear." And, faintly, a hint of desire - not unusual after she'd been doing Auror work. It heightened the senses, left the Auror with an edge to be worked off.

He reined in his own brief surge of desire; that was for later. Maybe. The full moon strummed that longing, making him hungry for life and living, honing the edge of his senses. Before and after the full moon, he was not the werewolf, but neither was he merely human. The yearnings were harder to rule but Remus always tempered his desires to hers, careful not to let the beast have control of him.

"What happened?"

This time, she answered. "The _Eliminatus._"

_Harry._ He winced and felt the icy cold in his gut. "Why?"

"De Vere taunted them about how Hermione died."

_Stupid_. Remus grimaced. "Wasn't De Vere last seen in Hungary?"

"Yes. Obviously he came back." She turned in his arms, tired and not a little distressed. "I've never seen them so angry before. Not even the day after Hermione went missing and Dumbledore forbade them to join the search for her."

Remus remembered that day only too well.

He remembered the stiff tension in the boys that first night after Hermione was nowhere to be found in Hogwarts. He remembered the way they stood in close proximity, comfortable with each others' personal space, but somehow lacking something - lacking some_one_.

He remembered Neville's ashen face, the way Ginny and Luna held on to each other with hands that knuckled white against their pale skin, and the glimmer of anger lurking in the gazes of the boys as they paced, caged panthers only needing a prey to hunt. Five children drawn together, waiting for news of the sixth.

The Aurors had been all through the castle, looking for a route through which she might have been taken while the other students were herded back to their dorms. An atmosphere of fear pervaded the school, from first year to seventh and there was no respite from it anywhere. Not even in Dumbledore's office where the two young men faced down the elderly Headmaster, openly rebelling against the edict that they should remain at Hogwarts.

"_What do you mean we're not allowed to go after her?" Ron cried. Disbelief exuded from him, unlike Harry who radiated anger. Remus watched and felt a pang in his heart. Ron still believed in Dumbledore; Harry did not. "Professor, this is Hermione! We're not going to just sit here and do nothing!"_

"_Ron--"_

"_Mr Weasley," Dumbledore said, interrupting Bill's reprimand, "I cannot allow you to leave the castle at this time. It is far too dangerous for you to go looking out for Miss Granger--"_

"_Far too dangerous in terms of what?" Ron asked, heatedly. "In terms of facing Voldemort? Harry's done that six times so far and survived each one. In terms of facing Death Eaters? Done that, too. In terms of going looking for our best friend? We're bloody Gryffindors, Headmaster, what do you _expect_ us to do?"_

_Ron's anger was understandable, if unexpected._

_But it was far preferable to Harry's acrimony._

_It was then that the pent bitterness of three years burst forth, revealing what the demands of the wizarding world had made of Harry Potter._

"_I could tell you to sod off with your prophecy, Headmaster," he said, and the acid of his voice etched painful lines into the old man's face. The change was minute, but telling: where Dumbledore had attempted to restrain Ron, he made no such attempt with Harry._

"You could," Dumbledore said, holding up a hand to curb the reactions of the Order standing around them. The moment stretched thin and quiet. "I cannot stop you, Harry."

_Harry's laugh barked, short and harsh in the silence. "But you don't have to, do you, Dumbledore? You know that I'd never... That I wouldn't risk anyone else like..." His voice thickened, choked in a moment of powerful emotion, and he turned on his heel and left._

_Ron turned, likewise, took one step after Harry, then swung back to look at Dumbledore for one long moment. Remus saw the moment when trust crumbled and belief died. Then Ron bowed his head, turned away, and followed Harry out of the Headmaster's office._

Since that day, the two had spiralled ever downwards; heroes to the wizarding world, but with a hatred for Dark wizardry to rival Barty Crouch at his most passionate.

"What did you do?" Remus asked, referring back to the raid in Bristol.

Tonks grimaced. "What could I do? De Vere was...well...gone before I could do anything. Alf had a choking charm done on him and Vel was out cold. I put the boys on report - but Fudge will just put them back on duty again, and we need them out in the field more than..." She leaned her forehead against his collarbone. "The _Eliminatus_ isn't among the Unforgivables yet, and De Vere was a known Death Eater..." She trailed off. "They did what a lot of us have wanted to do for a long time but... They were just so--"

"Angry and reckless."

"Angry and dangerous," Tonks said. Her soft words chilled him.

"Do you think they're a danger to the wizarding world?"

"Not yet." The grimness in her voice was frightening. Tonks was one of the more lighthearted Aurors, although she took her responsibilities as seriously as Moody could wish. To have her so concerned about the boys was an indicator that things might be worse than anyone had ever thought they could be. "I wish..." She paused, then continued, "I wish Fudge hadn't insisted we shorten their training. Yes, they'd been doing that Defense Against the Dark Arts stuff for years before, but that doesn't change the fact that they're too young for the job. Emotionally young."

"This coming from one of the youngest Aurors ever accepted into the Division," Remus teased her, but lightly.

"I was never on a hair-trigger, Remus," she murmured. "Nor are any of the other kids in the Division."

"No," he said.

Four of Harry and Ron's peers had joined the Auror Division with the intent to become Aurors: Susan Bones, Daphne Greengrass, Anthony Goldstein, and Draco Malfoy. All four of them were now out in the field after a shortened, specialised training program.

The work of the first three within Dumbledore's Army had advanced them enough in hexes, curses, and spells that a full year had been knocked from their training and they had started working without supervision in just the last four months.

Draco Malfoy had not been in the DA, but he was already out doing fieldwork on his own. Dumbledore had trusted him in the second war, and the young man had proven his loyalty to the side that was going to keep his skin intact. Besides, nobody could deny that Malfoy had more than enough incentive to hunt down the Death Eaters - as well as an insight into Voldemort's inner circle that the Order had lost upon the death of Severus Snape.

Tonks trusted her cousin, accepting his conversion with her open ease. Remus would never quite trust Malfoy - the boy's cold pale eyes watched Remus with all the wariness of someone who looked at a beast to be put down should it so much as bare its teeth.

Young Draco could be sarcastic, mocking, and cynical, but his anger at what had happened to his family and name was clean. He resented his role, but at least that bitterness was pure, lacking the poisoned edge that marked Harry and Ron.

They were like a delayed destruction spell, set to explode at some unknown trigger event.

Unfortunately, Fudge refused to see that, in much the same way he'd refused to see so many other things in his career as Minister of Magic. That the man had remained in his position all these years was a testament to his political slipperiness; that, and the fact that so many other candidates had proven themselves unable to navigate the ups and downs of the political changes in the last couple of years.

Remus looked at Harry and Ron and saw a very similar duo to Sirius and James. Harry and Sirius with their pride and their fierce anger at the world; Ron and James acting as the mitigating influence to the forces of nature that were their friends.

Was it strange to liken Harry to Sirius rather than James? Most people would have said, 'Yes.'

Remus Lupin wasn't most people.

"One day they'll go too far," Tonks murmured, still leaning against his collarbone. "They'll do something that really is unforgivable."

Two years ago, Remus would have thought it impossible that Harry and Ron could do anything unforgivable. But two years ago was two years ago, and too much had changed in that time.

"Can we stop them?"

She laughed shortly and turned her head into the crook of his neck, seeking comfort. "I'd like to see anyone try."

He let her seek comfort in him, seeking his own comfort in her.

"_Neosso Irrado,_" Remus muttered to himself.

"What?"

"_Neosso Irrado_." He enjoyed her narrow-eyed glare for a moment, then explained. "It's a phrase in a Muggle book about a family of painters who are wizards - but their magic only comes out in painting."

It never ceased to surprise him that Tonks, coming from a part-Muggle background, had so little interest in the Muggle world. Of the two of them, Remus came from a pure wizarding background and was the one to read up on Muggles and all the different ways they managed without magic - and then the way they compensated for the lack of magic in creating imaginary worlds.

Tonks frowned. "How can magic only come out in--" She caught his look. "Okay, okay, it's just a story! But what does 'nusseorado' _mean_?"

"'_Neosso irrado_,'" Remus corrected her gently. "It means 'angry youth.'"

She grimaced. "Apt." Silence fell, but Remus could hear that the conversation was not yet finished - another instinct which was heightened during full moon. Finally, she spoke. "Arthur calls them jaded. Too much, too young; too hard, too soon; too little, too late." She let out a long, shuddering breath and his arms tightened around her, just a little - just enough to reassure her. They weren't her responsibility - or at least, they weren't _just_ her responsibility. They were their own, too. "They relied on her so much."

He couldn't stop the bitter smile that touched his lips at her words. "It was worse than that," he said, very gently. "They loved her."

Remus could understand Harry and Ron, even if he'd never taken that path.

That first month after Sirius went to Azkaban had been the worst in Remus' life. He'd lost the four people he loved most in a single night: two to the Killing Curse, one to betrayal, and one to fear and ambition - and it had scarred him as much as the werewolf's bite. Nobody truly recovered from losing people they loved. They could distance themselves from it, they could forget about it, they could let time wear the pain down until there was only the fondness of old recollection, but they never emerged from such an experience unchanged.

"So what do I do?"

That was so very Tonks, needing to do something, to be active and proactive. Twelve hundred years ago, she'd have made an amazing Valkyrie. His fingers brushed through her locks and he grinned to himself, imagining a Valkyrie with short, spiky blue hair under her helm. Then he sighed and put the whimsy away.

"Nothing." The word galled him as much as it would her. Sometimes there was nothing to be done.

"Nothing?"

"Nobody can stop them," he murmured. "You said so yourself. Dumbledore lost the reins to those two years ago, and they suffer the rest of us telling them right from wrong, but they're men now, Tonks - adults."

"So they can't be led," she said. "And they won't be stopped." Her breath huffed out in a big sigh. "Between the devil and the deep blue sea."

"Yes." Remus stroked his hand through her hair, savouring the contact and burying his nose in her hair.

"I wish..." She didn't say what she wished, but he answered anyway.

"I know."

She said nothing more, and he didn't offer anything more, not wishing to break the peace of the moment. In a few hours, he would Apparate out of London to an apothecary in the far North of Britain for his monthly Wolfsbane potion. It would be two days before he returned to Grimmauld Place, exhausted, weak, and rather the worse for wear.

Now was the best time for him to enjoy the feel of her to his heightened senses: soft skin, warm body, willing woman.

For small mercies, he could be incredibly grateful. And incredibly patient.

They stood in each others arms in the kitchen of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, delicately balancing on the aged flagstones of the floor. Overhead, the old house creaked slightly, shifting its old beams in gentle discontent.

Remus began to relax. The feel of her in his arms was nothing unusual; he'd slept with her slim form snuggled up beside him many nights before. Yet each time she rested there, he noticed something new, felt surprise steal through him that she was here, with him.

For a werewolf, so many small things could never be taken for granted: job, friends, lover, family. Remus' life wasn't perfect, but he could appreciate how much he had. He couldn't understand why a beautiful young woman like Tonks would want to waste herself on an old, tired werewolf like himself, but any time he questioned it, she got angry at him.

He'd learned not to question it - at least not out loud.

The cold of the night was seeping into his old bones. He tried to resist it, but when he could take it no more, he spoke. "Did you have dinner?"

She lifted her head from his throat, meeting his eyes only briefly. "Did you?"

"I take it that's a no?"

"I was going to," she protested and he felt the surge of exasperated affection. "But I went to Bristol straight from the Ministry to meet with a couple of young Aurors who were keeping an eye on the place today." At his disapproving expression, she added, "I'll have something to eat when I get up."

"Really?" He arched a brow. "In another," he peered at her Muggle watch, "ten hours when you finally crawl out of bed?"

"I'm not hungry right now anyway," Tonks argued, trying to forestall any attempts to feed her. "I'll wake when I'm hungry, Remus."

"You sure?"

Outside, high in the velvet sky, the clouds had drifted gently away from the silver orb of the moon, and the moonlight poured over them, rich as wine, pure as silk. He shivered briefly in her arms.

"Yes," she retorted. "What are you, my mother?"

Remus grinned - yes, _wolfishly_. Standing in the rays of the almost-full moon, his senses kicked into overdrive, as though there was suddenly a new layer to the world about him, hirtherto unseen. Almost of his own accord, his hands quivered over Tonks' skin as he bent his head towards hers. "Definitely _not_ your mother, Nymphadora." He paused, mouth hovering over hers. "And even if _you're_ not hungry, _I am_."

She laughed as he kissed her and he tasted it on her lips. There, too, was the edge of desire he'd scented on her before, swiftly developing on her skin and his. Tonks kissed him back with the certainty of a woman who knew her lover and knew what she wanted from him, and his pyjama top was hanging from his bare shoulders before he realised they were still in the kitchen and the nearest flat surface was the kitchen table.

He wasn't entirely sure how they reached their room, but they did, stumbling and laughing and not letting go of her for more than a few seconds anywhere along the way. There was a pause in the feverish need for touch and taste and smell when Tonks dragged herself away from him long enough to yank back the curtains so the moonlight cascaded over her hands, her hair, her skin...

Then Remus was upon her and devouring her - lips, shoulders, breasts, hips - until there was nothing left of either of them but the thick moonlight in which their bodies lay, supine.

He was still lying over her in a tumbled heap on the floor when she brushed her fingers past his cheek, tracing the slight bristles of his faint-grown beard. "What?"

"Oh, nothing." Tonks' mouth curved sweetly. "But the elastic of your pyjama bottoms is digging into my buttocks."

Her laughter rang through the room, filling the rafters with her amusement as he scrambled to his feet. He held out a hand to help her up and she yanked him down for a kiss before she climbed to her feet.

He tugged on his pyjama bottoms - the top was left somewhere downstairs - as she pulled on a t-shirt that doubled as a nightie and went looking for her underwear. Remus sat in the bed and smirked at her until she found them and slipped them back on, admiring her legs and the way the moonlight glimmered over them.

She flopped back on the pillows with a brief smile for him, but he could sense that her thoughts were not of him. Presently, a frown wrinkled her brow, and she opened her eyes. "Remus?"

"Tonks?"

"What if I get them killed?"

Not for the first time, Remus wondered at her ability to change trains of thought so effortlessly. Auror work, sex, then back to Auror work.

"You won't," he told her with certainty.

"But what if I--?"

Remus repeated what he'd told her before. "You won't." He turned on her, held her gaze. "If anyone gets them killed, it'll be themselves." He knew that with a certainty that shook him, and wished he didn't.

Her eyes - now large and black in her heart-shaped face - fixed upon him, slightly amused, but mostly not. "Turning Seer on me, now?"

He shook his head at her. "You're the leader of their Auror team, Tonks, not their keeper. They're grown men. Or," he amended as her mouth twitched, "close to grown men. They can look after themselves. We can keep an eye on them, but we're not responsible for them. Not anymore." _If we ever were_, he thought, remembering his first sight of Harry Potter, unconscious from the presence of the Dementors in the Hogwarts Express. "You can't stop them from endangering themselves," he said at last. "All you can do is stop them from taking others down with them."

He could feel her despair, a soul-numbing chill that wound itself around her soul, and he moved in close beside her. His beautiful Tonks was an adult, and an Auror, and a metamorphmagus, but sometimes she felt the world so immediately and fervently that he wondered that she hadn't been more hurt by the pain and cruelty and ugliness in it. And he loved her all the more for wanting to do something about it - for having the passion to fight, even in the face of her own despair. "You do your job, Tonks. That's all you can do."

Her hand brushed through his hair, lingering on his neck. "Will it be enough?"

Remus thought of the two angry young men who'd once been young boys with only schoolwork on their minds, then turned his head to kiss her palm. "Merlin knows."

--

**AUTHOR'S NOTES**: '_Neosso Irrado_' indeed comes from a Muggle book written by a trio of formidable fantasy writers: Melanie Rawn, Jennifer Roberson, and Kate Elliot - 'The Golden Key' by DAW books. If you can lay hands upon it, read it - it's good.


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